


Hold on Tight to Me

by dftreaper



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 3x01, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dftreaper/pseuds/dftreaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Okay, okay, but just go sl-OW!” Stiles shrieks and jams his face between Scott’s shoulder blades as the bike gives another abrupt jerk forward. Scott laughs, reaching down to unclench Stiles’ arms from around his ribs.</p><p>“Calm down, dude! You know I’m not gonna let you fall,” Scott laughs again, looking back over his shoulder at where Stiles’ face was still buried in the fabric of his sweatshirt.</p><p>Stiles’ shoulders slump and he huffs. When he sits back up, his cheeks are red.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold on Tight to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a kind-of reaction to Scott's bike in 3x01; it also unwittingly answers a prompt by Daunt, over on tumblr!

“Okay, okay, but just go sl-OW!” Stiles shrieks and jams his face between Scott’s shoulder blades as the bike gives another abrupt jerk forward. Scott laughs, reaching down to unclench Stiles’ arms from around his ribs.

“Calm down, dude! You know I’m not gonna let you fall,” Scott laughs again, looking back over his shoulder at where Stiles’ face was still buried in the fabric of his sweatshirt.  
Stiles’ shoulders slump and he huffs. When he sits back up, his cheeks are red.

“Okay, fine. I know that. Just- just go and stop being a butthole about it.” Stiles eyes the stretch of dirt road in front of them wearily. “And uh. You can use your wolf powers this time.”

Scott just smiles that stupid smile at him and faces forward again, revving the bike’s shuddering engine.

“Hold on!” Scott calls back, and Stiles only keeps his head up long enough to see Scott’s fingers start to release the clutch.

“Oh my god!” Stiles yelps as the bike gave an abrupt lurch forward, clenching his eyes shut and grabbing fistfulls of Scott’s sweatshirt.

When they haven’t crashed horrifically into a tree after thirty seconds, Stiles stops squeezing his eyes shut quite so tightly and starts to peek around Scott’s neck. From the corner of his eye he can see the wide, goofy smile stretching wide across Scott’s face and the steady whip of tree branches as they cruise along the road. They can’t be going more than fifteen miles an hour, but the vibrations are already making his thighs numb.

“Am I dead yet?” Stiles says. There’s no way he’s not dead. He let his werewolf best friend take him out on his at least slightly-illegal motorcycle-dirt bike hybrid thing that he bought from that sketchy guy at the trailer park on one of the deserted dirt roads that criss-cross the outer parts of Beacon Hills. _He’s not even wearing a helmet._

“Shut up, dude!” Scott laughs, speeding up suddenly and making Stiles scramble to get a better grip.

“Oh my god!” Stiles is pretty sure he actually screams when Scott takes a sharp turn, clamping his thighs around Scott’s and trying to mimic the way that Scott leans into the turn. He can hear Scott laughing at him, big belly laughs, as they straighten back out, but he’s too busy panting into Scott’s hood, trying to let the scent of Scott’s shampoo and laundry soap calm his breathing enough to tell Scott how much he hates him.

But then they’re slowing down and Stiles can feel how Scott’s ribs are expanding and contracting a little faster than normal. He can’t hear Scott breathing over the engine, but he can feel that Scott is breathing at least a little heavy. He’s taking this in as he’s taking stock of himself- the harsh shake of his thighs from the engine and the bumpy road; his chest pressed hard against Scott’s back; the muscles of Scott’s arms and thighs shifting as he turns with the curve of the road; the low-grade arousal that’s been pooling steadily in his belly since Scott showed up at his house and lifted the bike into the back of his Jeep; the slightly labored breathing beneath his hands.

On a whim, he shifts so he can see under Scott’s armpit. He gets sidetracked for a second staring at the way the worn denim of Scott’s jeans stretches tight over his thigh. Stiles pulls in a shaky breath when he shifts his gaze a few inches to the rights and there, right there, maybe a foot below where Stiles has his hands clenched over Scott’s stomach, is, at the very least, a very promising looking half-chub. Stiles feels heat rush to his face and the pit of his stomach.

“Dude, are you kidding me right now?” He blurts, because there is no way he is letting Scott get away with getting off on this. This is _gold._

“What?” Scott calls back, slowing down a little more so he can look over his shoulder. Stiles just raises an eyebrow, dropping his hand into Scott’s lap abruptly and squeezing.

Scott sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth, pushing hard on the break and skidding the bike to a stop.

“Jesus, Stiles,” he pants, stomping the kickstand into the dirt and twisting around to face Stiles properly. “You can’t just-”

“Is that why you brought me out here?” Stiles cuts him off. “So no one sees your secret shame?”

“Secret shame? Stiles, come on, it’s not-!” Scott protests, but Stiles cuts him off, squeezing again. Scott chokes on his gasp, turning even further around in the cramped seat and sliding his hand behind Stiles’ neck, stroking Stiles’ jaw with his thumb.

“Gotcha,” Stiles whispers, eyes flicking down to Scott’s mouth and back up to his eyes.

“Yeah,” Scott mutters back, leaning forward and pressing his mouth to Stiles’ in a sweet kiss.  
Stiles smiles against Scott’s mouth but rubs his hand up and down the length of Scott’s erection, using Scott’s gasp to swipe his tongue into Scott’s mouth.

Scott groans into it, hips trying to stutter up into Stiles’ hand, pulling Stiles closer to his mouth. Stiles lets himself get lost in it for a minute, the sucking kisses that Scott likes to place on his upper lip and the muffled gasps Scott makes every time Stiles sucks on his tongue. It takes Scott’s fingers lacing through his own, rubbing their joined hands over his erection, for Stiles to pull back, panting, and rest his forehead on Scott’s cheek.

“I’m not blowing you in the middle of the woods,” Stiles jokes, licking his wet lips, pulling back just enough so that Scott’s face isn’t blurry anymore.

“That’s not what you said last week,” Scott smiles, but he moves Stiles’ hand up to his stomach again, squeezing before he lets go. He gives Stiles one last peck before he turns around.

“Hold o-on,” Scott sing-songs, revving the bike up again and giving the throttle just enough juice to make a quick turn, kicking up dirt all around them and making Stiles squeak and duck his face back into Scott’s hood.

He smiles at Scott’s pleased laughter and the shuddery vibrations of the engine as Scott takes off down the dirt road.


End file.
